


an angel hiding his halo

by paintedlily



Series: blood sugar sex magic [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bisexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Dubcon if you squint, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt's self-esteem issues, I'm here for a good time, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Mild Humiliation, Mild Praise Kink, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Slut Shaming, Spanking, The Porn Is the Plot, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, bad boys are called Julian, but Jaskier is into it, but not really, canon adjacent, everyone is having a good time I swear, friends to idiots, he's just really bad at them, i don't make the rules, no beta we die like men, not a canonically accurate time, references to past Geralt/Yennefer, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:20:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26534995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintedlily/pseuds/paintedlily
Summary: It starts the way everything always does: with Jaskier not doing what he's fucking told.In which Jaskier is a very naughty boy.Geralt has to teach him a lesson.(Also, there are feelings involved, and everyone is a mess. Except, of course, for Yennefer, who is flawless and So Done.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: blood sugar sex magic [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1929277
Comments: 35
Kudos: 330





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *rolls up late like your drunk aunt, with a glass of white wine and terrible excuses*
> 
> Hey, all you cool cats and kittens.
> 
> First of all, I'd like to thank ~~the Academy~~ everyone for the overwhelming response to _motionless eternity_. I'm just. I'm fucking floored, you guys. I never in a million years expected that. I thought maybe, if I was lucky, a few people would read it and get some enjoyment out of it. I never anticipated all of the love and support you guys have shown. You're all phenomenal and I adore you.
> 
> Secondly, I sincerely apologize to everyone that I promised this to back in May. (May? Was that even a real thing? Sounds made up.) I swear on our sweet fuzzy bard that I really have been working on it, but aside from the dumpster fire that this whole year has been, my husband and I bought a house?! In _this_ economy?! So needless to say, writing has been a bit touch and go lately.
> 
> But anyway, here it is. Finally. It's probably nothing like what you guys wanted or expected, but it's all I've got to give. 13k+ words of it, because Geralt is a brooding goth himbo. Jesus. I did split it up into two parts, to hopefully make it easier to digest. Also, FYI, this does take place at some indeterminate period following _motionless eternity_ , but I feel like it can be read as a stand alone, for those of you who haven't read that yet.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Title from _Profane_ by Ashe Vernon.

It starts the way everything always does: with Jaskier not doing what he's fucking told.

"Do not touch the offerings," says the man faintly glowing on the dais. Geralt is still not convinced he's truly a demigod, but he has the tone down. Bored. Imperious. And the way he observes them as if they're vaguely troublesome laboratory specimens.

Geralt hates him.

The man, who calls himself Bezael, reminds him of almost every member of the ruling class he's ever had the misfortune to deal with. Which is why Geralt even brought Jaskier, who is, after all, a viscount, though he prefers playing the part of penniless minstrel, for whatever reason. He also, as a general rule, is much better at dealing with people than Geralt is, though at the moment he seems to be doing little besides vexing the wouldbe demigod by fingering the offerings brought to him by the villagers.

Honeycakes. Of course it would be the honeycakes. Jaskier's insatiable lust for sweet treats nearly rivals his lust for women. (And men, apparently, but Geralt doesn't think about that.) Were he ever to live the life of pampered nobility to which he was born, rather than traipsing about the continent after Geralt, his physique would be quite different. Not that Geralt spends any amount of time thinking about Jaskier's physique.

He scruffs Jaskier like a naughty kitten, and immediately regrets it. Jaskier makes a _noise_. Granted, he makes a lot of noises, a lot of the time. His repertoire is vast and fucking unending. But _this_ noise. This one conjures images of Jaskier spread out beneath him like an offering, the way the honeycakes are spread out before Bezael's dais. Images of all that pale skin bared for him. That soft pink mouth open on a moan, _Fuck, Geralt, yes_.

Geralt snatches his hand back, reminded of why he touches Jaskier as little as possible. He doesn't remember much about That One Time (or about The Other Time, either, and why the fuck do these things keep happening to them?) but sometimes when he touches Jaskier, or gets too close, breathes in too much of his chamomile and bergamot smell, he gets flashes. Putting his hands on Jaskier. Putting his _mouth_ on Jaskier. Marking him up. _Taking_ him. And Jaskier wanting it, _begging_ for it, loving it.

Geralt swallows.

"If you can't behave yourself, then go wait outside," he growls, suddenly irritable. If only Lambert could hear him, he'd shit himself laughing at how much Geralt sounds like _Pappy Vesemir._

Fuck Lambert. Jaskier needs to learn some self-restraint. He is a grown man, not a child, but if he wants to act like one, Geralt will treat him accordingly.

Jaskier sniffs. "Well," he says, archly, the brat, "I shan't stay where I'm not wanted."

That should be Geralt's first clue. Jaskier argues like breathing. If, at the end of all things, the only thing left for them to argue about is whether the sky is blue, or water is wet, Jaskier will undoubtedly apply himself to the task with the same vigor with which he pursues barmaids and stable hands. The fact that he leaves without putting up even a token resistance is deeply suspicious. Normally, it's the sort of clue Geralt would pick up on right away, but he's just been so distracted lately, for some reason.

"Your companion could use some discipline," Bezael opines in his bored drawl.

Geralt, busy watching Jaskier's retreating back, hums in agreement. Which, he will realize later, is probably a mistake.

Once Jaskier is no longer a perpetual distraction, Geralt and Bezael actually manage to hammer out an agreement. It isn't what Geralt would consider his finest work. In fact, it's downright problematic in a variety of ways. It does, however, have one redeeming quality, which is that it does not require an actual, _literal_ human sacrifice every year. So Geralt is counting it as a win.

After the bargain is struck and certain vows are made—namely, that if Bezael renegs on his end of the deal, Geralt will come back and cut his fucking head off—the demigod waves Geralt away. "I grow bored with this," he sighs. "Leave me, and take your pet with you. Perhaps when you next come to call, he'll be better behaved."

Geralt doubts that very much. Jaskier has always been, well, Jaskier. Geralt grits his teeth and goes to collect his troublesome bard.

Jaskier is lying on a stretch of grass outside the temple, resplendent in midsummer sunlight. Doublet open. Silk shift unbuttoned to the waist. His mouth is wet and sticky, and there are crumbs on his lips. Geralt watches him for a while in silence. His throat aches.

"I know you like to think you're sneaky, dear witcher," Jaskier says after a time, "but I can _feel_ you brooding, you know."

Geralt huffs. "I'm not _brooding_."

Jaskier sits up on his elbows and squints at Geralt. The way it makes his nose scrunch up is not at all endearing. Geralt of Rivia has never found anything endearing in his life, least of all Julian Alfred Pankratz, poet, songbird, consummate brat.

"No? What's all this, then?" Jaskier asks, waving a hand in the general direction of Geralt's person.

Geralt frowns at him. "Just contemplating the stupidity of a certain fool bard," he says.

Jaskier squawks in indignation. Before he can launch into what would undoubtedly be one of his long-winded and frankly wearying tirades, Geralt crouches down beside him and smears his thumb through the honey on Jaskier's lip. He ignores the way Jaskier gasps and goes pink. He doesn't think about the heat of his mouth or the feeling of Jaskier's breath on his skin.

"Pinching offerings from a demigod?" he scolds, holding up his thumb to show Jaskier the evidence of his misdeeds. "Really, Jaskier. You should know better."

Jaskier huffs. He smells like spun sugar. "Spare me your moralizing, Father Geralt," he says. Geralt grinds his teeth. "You don't even believe he's really a demigod."

"No," Geralt agrees, "but he obviously has power. You shouldn't go out of your way to piss him off."

"It wasn't out of my way," Jaskier assures him, flippant as ever. Geralt growls, but Jaskier only laughs. He _laughs_ at him. Geralt could snap Jaskier's spine like dry kindling. He could choke the life out of him without even breaking a sweat. He could rearrange Jaskier's insides into brand new configurations, and he has the _nerve_ to _laugh_. Geralt has to fight the urge to knock Jaskier back onto the grass. To rough him up. To put his hands on him, just a little, just enough to make him—

"Oh, come now. Don't be that way," Jaskier says, reading something in Geralt's expression. "He'll never even notice."

Geralt hums doubtfully. "Don't be too sure about that, lark," he says. He considers his sticky thumb for a long moment. He does not wonder if it tastes like honey, or if it tastes like Jaskier. "I think you're going to regret this."

When he looks up, Jaskier is watching him. His eyes are very blue. Piercing. Geralt feels laid bare under that gaze, exposed, and he hates it. He reaches out and rubs his thumb over the boyish curve of Jaskier's cheek, leaving a glistening trail of honey there. He doesn't know what he expects. For Jaskier to protest, maybe. For him to squirm the way he makes Geralt squirm. But he doesn't even flinch. He looks at Geralt with those big eyes and just...takes it.

"I regret nothing," Jaskier says, soft.

_Fuck._

//

"Okay, I regret it."

Jaskier comes scurrying into their room at the inn after a long and particularly raucous evening that Geralt has been carefully avoiding. He's sure Jaskier will bitch about it later—"I earn more coin when the people can _see_ you, you great lummox," he always insists—but Geralt simply cannot, at this moment in his life, sit through another rendition of _Hunger of the Wolf_ , Jaskier's new ballad about a wolf who devours a lovesick bard cast adrift in the wilderness. It is not subtle. Geralt hates it only marginally less than whatever the fuck Jaskier's other new song is called, the one about soft flowers and hard fucking, which is just eighteen minutes of filth couched in barely-veiled metaphor. 

Geralt pauses the steady, meditative movements of whetstone against steel blade and looks up at Jaskier. He is flushed and sweaty. Hair disheveled. Clothes askew. If it weren't for the look of wide-eyed panic on his face and the burnt onion stink of anxiety clinging to him, Geralt would think the bard was returning from one of his many trysts.

"You won't _believe_ what just happened to me!" Jaskier declares dramatically.

"Hmm," Geralt grumbles, skeptical. He's known Jaskier for a long time, at least by human metrics. There isn't much he wouldn't believe at this point.

"I have just spent the last hour, _Geralt_ —" Jaskier hurls his own name at him like a weapon, as if all Jaskier's ills are Geralt's fault—"being groped and...and… _molested_ by these...these… _heathens!"_

Geralt casts an eye over Jaskier. His doublet is missing. Shift still mostly unbuttoned. Laces loosened on his breeches, which hang precariously low on slender hips. He looks like he belongs in a brothel, _working._

"Can't imagine why they'd get the wrong impression," Geralt mutters, resuming vigorous sharpening of his sword.

Jaskier makes an offended noise. "I cannot believe my ears!" he exclaims. Geralt doesn't look at him, but he can imagine the display of theatrics taking place. "Are you implying—are you really, honestly, _actually_ suggesting—that I brought this on myself? That I was, as they say, _asking for it?"_

"Mmm," Geralt says by way of answer. 

"Oh-ho-ho, no, I will _not_ be slut-shamed by the likes of _you_ , Geralt of Rivia! Gods know _you've_ been to every whorehouse on the bloody continent, _twice_ , and fucked many a very lucky maid besides." Jaskier repeats _very_ under his breath. Geralt's hand slips. "Just because I don't want to die of a heat stroke in this godsforsaken, backwoods, disgusting little _hole_ —Melitele's sweet _ass_ , is it not sweltering? Fuck, what I wouldn't give to just strip down, to spread myself out on cool sheets and feel the breeze on my naked—"

" _Jaskier_ ," Geralt growls. A bead of sweat slithers down between his shoulder blades. Makes his skin itch. "Were you planning on getting to a fucking point sometime tonight?"

Jaskier huffs. "My point, dear witcher, is that I have been cursed!"

Geralt looks at him. His face is pink, his skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, hair damp at the ends and curling at his temples. Geralt studies the hummingbird flutter of the pulse in his long, smooth neck. Listens to the excited rhythm of his breathing. None of it is out of the ordinary after a long night of drink and song and working the crowd. He can find nothing wrong with his bard.

"Cursed," he repeats, nonplussed.

"Yes, Geralt, cursed!" Jaskier throws his arms out to the sides in an exaggerated gesture. "Cursed! You've heard the word before, yes? Surely I need not explain the concept to you."

Geralt grits his teeth. He wonders, not for the first time, how no one has ever done anything about that mouth.

Jaskier continues, with heavy sighs and extravagant motions, all pomp and excess, as usual. "Imagine, if you will: your humble bard, flush with success after a flawless performance, of _course_ , and surrounded by an adoring public. So I said to myself, _Jaskier, you should mingle with these people, slack-jawed and unwashed though they are, that they might, perhaps, be persuaded to show just a_ bit _more generosity_."

Geralt frowns. He's seen exactly how Jaskier _persuades_ people. His hand tightens around the grip of his sword as he starts sharpening again.

"So there I was, mixing among the common folk and using all of the many charms which I possess—well, at least as many of them are suitable for the public, I'm sure you can imagine—" Geralt sharpens faster—"when I happened to pass by a darkened corner, of the sort _you_ tend to favor whenever you actually deign to grace me with your presence of an evening, my lonesome white wolf—"

"Jaskier," Geralt says through clenched teeth.

Jaskier huffs. "Well, anyway, as I passed by, someone reached out and grabbed me. And when I say grabbed, Geralt, I do mean _grabbed_. No one has been quite that forceful with me since...well." He clears his throat a little. Geralt feels another bead of sweat trickle down the length of his spine. He wants to crawl out of his skin. "At any rate, I suddenly found myself at the mercy of...a man? Maybe? I use the term loosely. He looked—and I cannot stress this enough—like a potato. So imagine my absolute _horror_ when he said to me: _Come sit on my lap, beautiful, and let daddy be good to you_."

Geralt feels the whetstone start to crumble in his fist.

"And do you know the worst part, Geralt?" Jaskier asks in a hushed tone. Geralt can hear him shuffle closer. Can feel the intensity of his gaze. He doesn't dare to look up at him. "The _worst_ part is...I _did_."

Geralt stares at his own white knuckles. "You sat in a strange man's lap," he says flatly. His mouth feels numb. "And you let him...touch you."

"I couldn't help it!" Jaskier whines, pained. "It was _awful_ , Geralt. I didn't want to do it, but it was like I didn't have any control over my own body. I had no choice but to sit there and...and let myself be… _pawed_ at. The only way I eventually got away from him was to say that you were like to be down any moment, and that...well, um, I may have mentioned that you have a tendency of… _breaking_ people who, uh, take liberties with me."

That was _one_ time. It was in Crow's Perch, after the succubus. Jaskier still had Geralt's scent all over him and bite marks everywhere. Every time his sleeves rode up, Geralt could see bruises on Jaskier's wrists in the shape of his own fingers, and it made guilt squirm in the pit of his stomach. Guilt and something else that he doesn't think about. So maybe he went a little crazy when the idiot blacksmith's son put his hands on Jaskier in the back of a pub, but the bastard got off easy. Geralt only broke his arms. What he wanted to do was kill him.

"Well, I couldn't get rid of him fast enough after that, thank the gods. But then, well, it was like everyone wanted a turn." Geralt is grinding his teeth so hard his jaw aches. "Bearded Bess demanded I have a drink with her, but she seemed more interested in getting her hands down my shirt than drinking. And then there was the washer woman, who's almost blind, gods help me, so she kept saying, _Come closer, handsome, so I can see you_. She smells of lye, Geralt, and she has warts on her nose. I was only saved from _that_ indignity by the graces of a traveling merchant. Quite a nice bloke, that one, and rather good-looking, so I didn't mind so much that he kept putting his hand on my—"

" _Shut the fuck up, Jaskier_ ," Geralt snaps. The whetstone falls from his grasp and tumbles, broken, to the floor with a sound that is too loud in the suddenly quiet room. "I don't want to fucking hear about how you got passed around like the village whore."

Jaskier, for a wonder, says nothing back. Geralt looks at him. There are two spots of color high on his cheeks, and his mouth is turned down into a familiar petulant pout. Geralt can see his throat working, as if he'd dearly love to say something, but he remains silent. Because Geralt told him to.

Geralt's mouth is dry.

"You really have to do whatever someone says?" he asks.

Jaskier nods mutely. 

"No matter what it is? Even if it's something you don't want to do?"

Jaskier nods again, looking pained.

"So, if I told you—" Geralt's heart is as slow and steady as always, but each beat sounds like a warning, _don't don't don't_ —"if I told you to get on your knees right now, you would?"

Something about the look that passes over Jaskier's face tells Geralt that's a bad fucking example. Jaskier has looked at him like that before. It makes Geralt's skin feel too tight. Sweat prickles across his brow as Jaskier nods, slowly.

"Go down for me, Jaskier," he says. He shouldn't. He should stop this. He doesn't even know why he's saying it. But Jaskier falls to his knees with more grace than he has any right to. Just goes down so _easy_. So willing. He looks at Geralt with those blue eyes, wide and eager, and Geralt can't _think_.

"Come here to me," he orders. Jaskier moves as if to get to his feet, but Geralt says, "No. On your knees. _Crawl_."

Jaskier goes red. The sharp, bitter scent of embarrassment is heavy in the air, but with something else underneath. A familiar musk Geralt recognizes from vague memories of the last time he had the bard on his knees. Among other ways. He grips his sword tightly as Jaskier crawls to him on hands and knees and then kneels before him, heart beating a wild rhythm Geralt can feel as if it were his own. 

"Good boy," Geralt murmurs. Jaskier's eyes flutter shut, and he sighs softly, the only sound he can make. Geralt swallows against the tightness in his throat. "Come closer."

Jaskier obeys. Geralt's sword is still laid across his lap, separating them by a razor edge. Jaskier leans in so close that his silk shift brushes against it with a delicate rasping noise. Geralt can smell the little ripple of fear that runs over him. Can taste it on the back of his tongue. He allows himself to curl a hand around the back of the bard's neck, and he tells himself that it's for Jaskier.

The truth is that he is weak.

"Careful, lark, careful. Not too close." Geralt guides Jaskier until his face is just inches from Geralt's chest, and then stills him. Holds him there. "Just here."

Geralt can feel Jaskier's breath through his rough linen shirt. The heat of his skin. His wolf medallion glows faintly blue and trembles on its chain. And that should be the end of it. Whatever it is that's happening here. But Jaskier is soft and yielding under his touch, and his sweet pink mouth is so very close, and all Geralt can think about is that he knows how Jaskier tastes.

He _aches_.

"Jaskier," he breathes.

Jaskier looks up at him with those big blue eyes, so unguarded, so trusting, in a way Geralt doesn't deserve. He will never deserve this. And he shouldn't want it.

"Jaskier," he says again, half desperate. "Say something."

He doesn't know why he expects that Jaskier would end this. Even without words, he speaks so eloquently of desire. Geralt can read it in the red blush staining his cheeks. In the tense bow of his body, as if he longs to get closer, but dares not. In the heavy musk of arousal rising off of him. 

All he says is, "Geralt," soft, as whisper quiet as an arrow. Geralt feels it go straight through him just as sharply. "Geralt, _please_."

Fuck.

//

The temple is abandoned and dark when Geralt arrives bursting through the door, all black leather and red fury. He stops short before the deserted dais, where only one offering remains. A single honeycake. And laid beside it, almost artfully, a riding crop. The meaning is not lost on Geralt.

He spends several minutes swearing. Loudly and inventively. When he finally reaches the limit of his vocabulary, including the really filthy shit gleaned from nights spent getting shitfaced with Lambert and Eskel, he does the only thing he can think of.

He calls Yennefer.

She takes her time, of course. Geralt waits so long, holding the xenovox in his palm, that he starts to wonder if perhaps it's broken. Or maybe she's just pissed at him again. It's not unlikely. He thinks the only two people who spend more time pissing each other off than he and Yennefer are he and Jaskier. There's probably a parallel in there somewhere, but he can't think about that right now.

Finally, a portal opens toward the rear of the temple, and Yennefer steps through, looking as beautiful and commanding and intimidating as always. Geralt is immediately ensnared by her violet gaze, but for once he doesn't experience the usual sensation of heart-stopping attraction, or the strange fuzzy feeling at the back of his head like all his brains are leaking out just from being in her presence. He feels only a vague sense of relief.

"Geralt," Yennefer says. It is not a warm greeting, but it at least lacks outright hostility.

"Yennefer. I need your help," Geralt says without preamble.

Yennefer raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Well, I should rather think so. I'd hate to think you summoned me here—" she glances around their surroundings with a disapproving air—"in the middle of the night just to have a spot of tea. You've interrupted my bath."

Geralt does notice, now, that her hair is damp at the ends, and that she seems to have gotten dressed in a hurry. She is a bit disheveled, which is unlike her. Normally, those are details Geralt would have noticed right away, but he is, of course, preoccupied.

"It's Jaskier," he says, as if this excuses any intrusive or inconsiderate behavior on his part. The look on Yennefer's face tells him exactly what she thinks of that.

"Of course it is." She rolls her eyes expressively. "So it's true, then. You and the bard have gotten back together. I'd heard a rumor."

Geralt winces. "We've...reconciled," he admits. He doesn't know if what he and Jaskier did really counts as reconciling, but he very carefully does not think about that, lest Yennefer skim a series of images from his mind that are illegal in at least three territories. He gets the impression that she sees more than he wants her to anyway, because she snorts delicately.

"Well," she says, in a tone Geralt can't decipher. "What trouble has our sweet flower gotten himself into this time?"

"He's been cursed," Geralt replies gravely.

Even in the dark, Geralt can see the way her eyes glitter. With mirth or with malice, though, who can ever be sure where Yennefer of Vengerberg is concerned?

"Really? How delightful," she says in that low, silky-smooth voice that, once upon a time, turned Geralt's insides liquid.

"Yennefer," he says warningly, through gritted teeth.

"Oh, don't look at me that way," she huffs. Her hands go to her hips in a familiar challenging stance Geralt recognizes from long acquaintance. "Obviously it's not immediately life-threatening, otherwise you'd be quite as frantic as the first time I met you. Do you remember, Geralt?"

Of course he fucking remembers. How could he ever forget riding hard through the night with Jaskier clinging to him, choking and wheezing. Thinking _please don't die please don't die please don't die_ , and pushing Roach to her limit. Half-carrying Jaskier through the press of writhing bodies to stand before Yennefer where she sat watching, cold and impassive, like a goddess looking down upon lesser beings. _Just a friend, I hope_ , she said to him, and even then he couldn't answer her.

Geralt frowns. "I remember," he says. He wishes he could forget. Jaskier's wide, frightened eyes and bloodstained face. The cold panic gnawing at the pit of Geralt's stomach. His last wish. All of it.

"Well," Yennefer says impatiently when Geralt fails to say anything more, "out with it. What curse has befallen your bard this time?"

"He...has to do whatever he's told," Geralt replies, grimacing. He realizes how stupid it sounds when he says it out loud.

Yennefer stares at him, nonplussed. "Geralt, darling," she says, "that's a blessing, not a curse."

There was a time when Geralt would have agreed with her. Like this afternoon, in this very temple. Or at literally any other point in however many fucking years he's known Jaskier. The problem is that Geralt can't stop picturing a strange man pulling Jaskier into a shadowy corner. Touching what isn't his to touch. Jaskier helpless to do aught but squirm under his advances. _Come here, beautiful, and let daddy be good to you_. In his mind, the man looks like the blacksmith's son and Geralt puts his fist through his face all over again.

"Hmm, I see," Yennefer says. Geralt wishes she didn't. "I suppose it does rather spoil the fun if he has to do _everyone's_ bidding."

Geralt looks away from her. "Can you help lift it or not, Yen?"

"Well, it sounds like a fairly standard obedience spell," she replies airily. "It shouldn't be very difficult to reverse. Of course, it would help if I knew something about how your little songbird came by it. Mage, vengeful ghost, cursed object?"

"None of the above."

Geralt holds the shape of _igni_ in his mind and snaps his fingers toward the candles scattered across the dais. They spring to life, illuminating the elaborately carved stonework and rich, beautiful tapestries of the inner sanctum. Yennefer's eye seems immediately drawn, not to the expert craftsmanship, but to the strange offering lying at the center of it all. 

"There was a man here earlier. Some asshole claiming to be a demigod. Called himself Bezael," Geralt tells her. Yennefer's look of distaste is immediate and unmistakable. "I take it you've heard of him?"

"We've met," she says, as if thinking about it puts a bad taste in her mouth. "Well, this certainly complicates things."

Dread settles in the pit of Geralt's stomach and lays down roots. "Complicates them how?" he demands.

"Bezael isn't just any demigod, Geralt. He's a trickster god," Yennefer replies. Geralt grimaces. "Exactly. Fortunately, he tends to favor common, garden variety magic. That is to say, nothing _overtly_ malicious. But there is, of course, always a twist."

"Of course," Geralt says dryly.

Yennefer sighs. "Your bard _would_ get on his bad side, wouldn't he? He never does anything by half, our Jaskier." She perches gracefully on the stairs leading up to the dais, and says, "You'd better tell me what happened. Don't spare the details."

Geralt spares plenty of details. He tells her all the relevant parts, though, while Yennefer listens and makes thoughtful noises in all the right places. When he's finished, she is silent for a long moment, tapping elegant fingers against her knee and gazing contemplatively at the honeycake and the riding crop. 

Finally, she says, "You said he was upset with Jaskier for touching the offerings. What did he say? His exact words."

"He said—" Geralt frowns, thinking—"that Jaskier needs discipline."

Yennefer laughs. She actually fucking _laughs_ , as if any of this is amusing. Geralt stares.

"Oh my," she says, grinning at him in a way that would make weak men tremble. "My, my, Geralt, you're certainly in for an interesting evening."

That feeling of dread is blooming into his chest now. "What the fuck are you talking about?" he snaps.

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it? _That's_ the twist," Yennefer says. She gets to her feet and moves to where the honeycake and the riding crop are arranged on the polished stone. Her slender fingers caress the leather handle of the riding crop as if it were a lover. "Darling Jaskier has been cursed—for certain definitions of the word—to be a very good boy. So of course, ironically, the only way to lift the curse is to treat him as if he were a very _bad_ boy."

"You don't mean…"

"Oh yes," Yennefer says, eyes alight.

"But," Geralt says. His mouth is dry. "But you said you could reverse it."

"Yes, well, that's when I thought I was dealing with some unremarkable backwater mage, or maybe an untrained woods witch," Yennefer says dismissively. "I'm good, Geralt, but even I'm not good enough to undo the magic of a thousand-year-old demigod."

Geralt swears. 

"Come now," Yennefer chides, "surely it's not as bad as all that. Just put the bard over your knee, give him a good thrashing, and all will be well."

Geralt stares at her. "Yen, I. That's. I can't do that."

"And why ever not?" Yennefer demands. She picks up the riding crop and examines it almost lovingly. "Gods know he needs it. The mouth on him, Geralt. Don't tell me you've never thought about it."

Geralt is glad he can't blush. "It wouldn't be right," he grumbles. 

"Lilit's tits," Yennefer says heavenward. "You really are a disgustingly noble creature, aren't you?"

Geralt doesn't know what to say to that. He doesn't think there is anything particularly noble about refusing to take advantage of his...whatever the fuck Jaskier is to him. The bard is cursed and vulnerable and defenseless, and Geralt. Well. Geralt has done enough already. He won't do this too. Jaskier deserves better.

Yennefer scoffs. "Gods spare me from idiot witchers," she says, as if to herself. Then, to Geralt, she continues, "Honestly, Geralt, you haven't much of a choice. You can either take matters into your own hands—quite literally, as it were—or you can leave your little lark to the tender mercies of every passing admirer. How many men in taverns do you reckon you'll have to bloody before he's safe? Or were you planning to retire? Take the bard away to a little cabin in the woods, perhaps?"

Geralt squirms under her keen gaze. He absolutely does not in any way think about the last time he had Jaskier in a cabin in the woods. In every possible sense of the word _had_ imaginable.

"Hmm, that is a delicious little prospect, isn't it?" Yennefer purrs. She takes a few steps toward him, dragging the tongue of the riding crop along the edge of the dais. Smooth leather against polished stone makes a slick sound that slithers up Geralt's spine. "If only you were just a bit less _noble_. Imagine it, Geralt. You could have the bard all to yourself. Docile. Obedient. Yielding to your every whim and desire. You could do anything. Have him any way you wanted. Forever."

Geralt looks away from her. "What makes you think that's something I would want?"

Yennefer laughs. Of course she laughs. People used to be afraid of him. Women would scream and babies would cry and men would hide their wives and children when the Butcher of Blaviken came to town. Now he is a source of amusement for upstart bards and sorceresses of questionable sanity.

"Oh, Geralt," she says, half-fond, shaking her head. "It's _adorable_ how you think you're anything but transparent."

_Fuck._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hereby dedicate this filth to that video of Joey reading the scene where Dandelion tells Geralt he should become a priest. I mean. In my defense, how the fuck was I supposed to listen to him read at me in that tone of voice and _not_ twist it into something dirty? Jesus Christ.

In the end, Jaskier makes it easy for him. 

It's late enough by the time Geralt arrives back at the inn that there are only three people remaining in the tavern proper. The town drunk, so deep in his cups he is slumped, insensate, over one of the tables. The innkeeper's daughter. And Jaskier.

Of _course_ Jaskier.

He has the girl sat on a table in the farthest, darkest corner of the room. Geralt is sure Jaskier thinks he's being discreet, but even from the doorway there is no mistaking his posture. The measured movements of his hand under her skirts. The way the girl clutches at him, white-knuckled. Her head is tipped back, freckled cheeks flushed, as she utters little hiccuping moans that Jaskier does his best to stifle with his mouth.

"Shhh," Jaskier murmurs against her lips. "You're lovely, darling. So lovely. But don't sing more sweetly than me, or you'll put me out of a job."

"Oh, you'll be singing sweeter than that by the time I'm done with you, lark," Geralt growls in Jaskier's ear.

When did he get so close? He doesn't remember crossing the room, but here he is. Pressed against the long, tense line of Jaskier's back. Close enough to smell his arousal under the more immediate scent of the girl's musk. Close enough to see the blush that starts at the tops of Jaskier's ears and spreads down the back of his neck.

The girl utters a strangled shriek and goes instantly pale and rigid. Geralt barely spares her a glance. He only has eyes for Jaskier, who makes a sound, low in his throat, that goes straight through Geralt. He watches as the bard carefully extracts his hand from under the girl's skirts and flexes his glistening fingers.

"Careful, love. I need those," he says, a little dazedly. He brings his hand to her knee, then. Strokes the delicate protrusion of bone soothingly. "You'll have to forgive my companion. He forgets himself. Raised by wolves, you know."

Geralt grits his teeth. "You're the one who seems to have forgotten himself, bard," he snarls. "I can't leave you alone for five fucking seconds—"

"Yeah, well, I never asked you to!" Jaskier shouts, rounding on him. There is a fire in his eyes that Geralt is unaccustomed to. He thinks the last time he saw Jaskier this angry, they were screaming at each other on a riverbank. At least this time he knows why. "You chose to leave! Or have _you_ forgotten _that?_ Because I haven't. Trust me, witcher, I haven't forgotten anything. I remember very well that you don't want me. You gave me a cruel reminder of that when you shoved me away and stormed off to go see your psychotic sorceress. And don't even try to deny it! You _stink_ of lilac and gooseberries."

Geralt doesn't know why that makes him feel guilty. He was an old man long before Jaskier was even born. He doesn't answer to him. Doesn't owe the infuriating little shit a single fucking explanation. And yet he finds himself saying, "She was helping me figure out how to fix you, Jaskier."

"Right, good, yeah, good. Well. I'm so very glad my current plight could help bring you two closer together. I wish you many fat children," Jaskier snaps at him.

" _Jaskier_ ," Geralt says warningly, but Jaskier's mouth, as it so often is at times like this, is unstoppable.

"Just be careful she doesn't _eat_ them. Now kindly fuck off back to your witch, Geralt, and let me get on with—"

"Fucking this girl in plain view of everyone?"

"Everyone? Like who? The fucking drunk?!"

"Or her _father_ ," Geralt spits. He motions toward the back of the tavern, where the innkeeper and his family live, and whence the man could appear at any moment. The gesture is lost on Jaskier, who is so close Geralt can feel the heat of his body. So close all they can see is each other. "Fuck, Jaskier, I didn't realize the curse made you stupid as well. Did you even _think_ about what could happen if he came out to check on her?"

"Admittedly, I was using a different part of my anatomy to make my decisions. That tends to happen when someone gets me all worked up and then just _leaves_ , Geralt," Jaskier bites back, pure venom. "If you don't like my choice in partner, I'm sure I can find another one. Even if _you_ don't want me, there are plenty of people who do. Like that nice traveling merchant from earlier. Maybe I'll find his room. I bet he'd make me scream all night. Seemed like the type— _ah_."

Geralt's hand is around Jaskier's throat, and he has no idea how it got there. He squeezes, just a little, before he can think better of it. Just enough that Jaskier subsides with a choked whimper. Geralt uses his grip to pull Jaskier flush against him. Fists his other hand in the sweat-damp silk at the small of Jaskier's back. He half expects Jaskier to struggle. To fight back. He doesn't. Just goes still and shivering in Geralt's grasp.

"The only person who's going to make you scream tonight, lark, is _me_ ," he hisses against Jaskier's ear. "By the time I'm done with you, you won't even be able to _think_ about anyone else."

Fuck. This isn't how this is supposed to go. Geralt should stop, now, before he goes too far. But Jaskier shudders against him, a slow, full body roll. Scrapes his fingers down Geralt's back in a way that makes Geralt feel half mad, and he just. He _can't_. Gods, but the things this fool bard does to him.

Geralt closes his eyes and breathes. "Now," he says, slow and measured, "you're going to be a good boy for me, Jaskier. You're going to go upstairs, to our room, and you're going to wait for me. Do not speak to anyone. Do not go anywhere else. Do not _do_ anything else. Am I understood?"

"Geralt," Jaskier says, barely above a whisper, but Geralt can hear the desperation there. "Don't tease me, please, I can't—I can't take it. If you don't intend—if you don't want—"

There it is again. That stab of guilt, heavy and sour in Geralt's stomach. He strokes his thumb over the fluttering pulse in Jaskier's throat, soothing. "Shh. I want," he murmurs. _Gods_ , how he wants. More than he should. More than he deserves. "Now do as I said. Don't make me tell you again."

He tightens his grip around Jaskier's throat. Not too much. Just a hint of pressure. A warning. The little _oh_ sound that Jaskier makes, half-strangIed, should not make Geralt instantly hard. He hates himself for it, even as Jaskier's body draws tight like a bowstring, hips rocking forward. He's hard, too, under his breeches. Geralt can feel it. Can smell the mess he's making of the expensive satin. It's all Geralt can do to keep from throwing Jaskier down on the table and rutting against him like an animal right here in front of the gods and everyone.

Instead, he pushes Jaskier in the direction of the stairs. Jaskier obediently goes to them on unsteady legs. Disappears upstairs without so much as a word or a backward glance at the girl he was knuckle-deep in two minutes ago. Geralt doesn't know why that makes him feel a vicious surge of satisfaction.

When Jaskier is out of sight, he turns to the girl, who is staring at him, terrified, arms crossed over the ample breasts spilling out of her blouse. "Please," she whimpers. "I didn't know he was yours, I swear. Please don't—"

"I'm not going to hurt you," Geralt growls at her. He digs a coin out of a pocket and slaps it down on the table beside her. "Ale. No. Something stronger. Whatever you have."

The girl scurries to obey. It's nice that at least one person on this godsforsaken continent doesn't have to be cursed to do as he asks. The girl brings back a tumbler full of a clear liquid that tastes like the pepper vodka he had once in White Orchard, which is absolutely vile, but does the trick. He feels much calmer once the burn subsides. 

Geralt gives the empty tumbler back to her, along with another coin. "Go to bed. Bar the door. Ignore anything that you hear tonight," he tells her. "And for gods' sakes, next time a bard comes through town, don't even look his way. They're nothing but trouble. Trust me."

If Geralt's heart could race, he thinks it would as he climbs the stairs to the room he shares with Jaskier. He pauses in the hall, just outside the door, but not for long. He can smell Jaskier, even now. Can hear his restless heart. His quick, shaky gasps of breath. They lure Geralt in, compelling and inexorable, like a siren song.

When he enters, Jaskier is sitting at the foot of the bed. The way he's leaning back on his elbows makes his body arch at a delicious angle. Geralt can see every line through clinging silk and satin. Can see how his cock strains against the front of his breeches between legs spread wide like an invitation. Jaskier looks like something out of a fucking wet dream, and Geralt _wants_.

It would only take a few steps to close the distance between them. To settle himself in the welcoming vee of Jaskier's thighs. To push Jaskier down into the bed and work them both into a frenzy of heat and sweat and friction. He could touch Jaskier, finally. Nuzzle his face into the triangle of darkly thatched chest visible where Jaskier's shift gapes open. Relieve him of those ridiculous clothes entirely, and worship his body with hands and lips and tongue.

Geralt doesn't do any of those things. 

He takes the chair from in front of the spindly writing desk and sets it in the middle of the room. Jaskier watches him, something complicated happening on his face. A complex interplay of emotions that Geralt can't even begin to untangle. He will never understand how one person can feel so many things at once. Surely it's enough to drive a man mad. Maybe Jaskier _is_ mad. It would explain why he wants a monster like Geralt.

Geralt settles himself into the chair, legs spread obscenely wide to accommodate his aching erection. He doesn't miss the way Jaskier's eyes flick downward. The way he licks his lips, hungry. There are words just on the tip of that wicked tongue. Geralt can feel them in the tension hanging heavily between them, like the air before a storm. For once, Jaskier says none of them. His eyes slide slowly back up to meet Geralt's, and Geralt holds his gaze, intent, as he rumbles:

"You've been a bad boy, Julian."

Several things happen at once. Jaskier's eyes go very wide. His cheeks go very pink. Geralt hears his breath catch in his throat. If he worried that he might be crossing a line, that he's taking this too far, to a place they can't come back from, he needn't have. Not judging by the way Jaskier's expression finally settles into something heated and half-starved.

"I have," he admits, breathless, unrepentant. 

"Hmm. I'm glad we're in agreement," Geralt says, dry as dust. "You must know what you've done wrong then. Tell me."

Jaskier sits up a little straighter. Offers Geralt a coquettish smirk. "Oh, shall I enumerate my sins for you, Father Geralt?" he asks, still in that breathless tone. Geralt feels himself start to sweat. "Perhaps I should kneel at your feet as well, like a penitent. Beg your absolution."

"I think that would be a good start," Geralt rasps. His mouth is suddenly very dry.

"Hmm," Jaskier hums. Somehow, when he does it, it sounds like a noise someone would _pay_ him to make. "Well, I suppose I am entirely at your command."

Geralt swallows hard and pretends that he's completely in control when he says, "On your knees, boy."

Jaskier slides from the bed to the floor with the same easy grace with which he does all things. It shouldn't make Geralt feel the way it does to see him like that. On his knees, with his lip caught between his teeth. It shouldn't make his heart stutter in his chest when Jaskier presses his palms flat against the floor and starts to crawl toward him. 

"Is this what you want?" he asks, holding Geralt's gaze, deliberate. "You like this, don't you? Like watching me crawl, like the filthy little beast that I am."

Geralt reaches out and slides his fingers into Jaskier's hair as he slots himself into the space between Geralt's legs. He tightens his grip just enough that Jaskier stills. "You're not a beast," Geralt murmurs. Tugs Jaskier's hair, firmly, until he straightens up, mouth open and panting. "You're just a naughty little boy."

"Yes," Jaskier gasps out. He rests his hands on Geralt's thighs to steady himself. A whisper of a touch, but it feels like lightning all along Geralt's nerves. "Yes, I am. Forgive me, Father."

Geralt feels sweat prickle down the back of his neck. "Hmm. What sins should I forgive you for, Julian?" he asks.

"I—" Jaskier starts. Stops. Licks his lips in that distracting way he has. "The girl—"

"I don't give a shit about the girl."

It's a lie. Geralt can still smell her on him, and it makes something dark and reptilian try to blink itself awake at the base of Geralt's brain. He ignores its cold slither as he scrapes his fingers through Jaskier's hair to the nape of his neck. Strokes the downy fuzz there just to feel him shiver.

"The temple then," Jaskier says, voice uneven. His composure is slipping, and it makes Geralt's blood sing and his chest swell, like when he gets the upperhand in a fight. It makes him want to take Jaskier apart, little by little, until it's all stripped away. 

"Good boy," he breathes. Jaskier makes a soft sound, and his eyes flutter shut. "Now we're getting somewhere. Tell me what happened at the temple."

"I stole a honeycake," Jaskier replies, half whispered. Geralt doesn't believe for a second it's because he's truly contrite.

"You stole an _offering_ ," Geralt corrects, sternly. "From a _trickster god_."

Jaskier looks up at him, blue eyes wide. Worries his bottom lip with his teeth. "Ah," he says. "So, our chum Bezael was a proper demigod after all."

"Mmhm," Geralt rumbles. "I did try to warn you he was powerful."

"Yes. Well. You know me," Jaskier says, with a gesture Geralt has come to learn means _what can you do_ , or _so it goes_ , and sometimes both at once.

He brushes his fingers down the back of Jaskier's neck. Lets them dip under the ridiculous lacy collar of his shift to rub a circle around the knob of Jaskier's spine between his shoulders. A gentle touch that contradicts the danger in Geralt's voice when he says, "I do. I know you're a fucking brat who never listens or does what he's told."

Jaskier leans into Geralt's touch with a soft, hazy-eyed expression on his face, but his voice is sulky when he says, "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" Geralt asks. "All of this could have been avoided if you had just behaved yourself, for once in your life. But you wanted something, so you took it. Consequences be damned. It's the same story as always with you."

Jaskier, who has admitted, on at least one memorable occasion when plied with enough Est Est to make him both loose-lipped and loose-limbed to the point of distraction, that he is the architect of his own misfortune, has the grace to look abashed. He nibbles at his bottom lip again. Geralt wishes he would stop doing that. 

"I suppose I don't have the best record," Jaskier admits with a sigh. He settles back on his haunches, which puts him roughly at mouth level with Geralt's dick. Geralt tries not to think about that too hard. Until, of course, Jaskier lays his head against Geralt's thigh, and it's all he _can_ think about. "Is there any hope for me at all? Surely I'm not doomed to be cursed forever."

Geralt hums distractedly as he trails his fingers up the long, graceful line of Jaskier's neck to the juncture of his jaw, and then down to the cleft at the center of his chin. "No, I think you'll come out smelling like roses, the way you always do when you step in a giant pile of shit," he says, somewhere between fond and disapproving. 

"So you know how to lift the curse, then?" Jaskier asks. Geralt imagines he can hear a familiar hopeful lilt to his voice, underneath the half-dazed, dreamy tone.

"I do," Geralt confirms. "But I hope you don't think you're getting off easy."

Jaskier smirks and nuzzles his face against the inside of Geralt's thigh. "Well, it never is very difficult where you're concerned," he purrs.

"Cheek," Geralt grumbles. Grips Jaskier's chin in his hand, halting the way the bard is nosing insistently along his inseam. "The mouth on you, boy, maybe it'll do you some good to be taught a lesson."

Jaskier shivers visibly. Geralt hears his heart pick up speed. He doesn't know what reaction he was expecting, exactly, but it wasn't that. It wasn't the way the particular salt-musk smell of Jaskier's arousal sharpens in the air. Sticks to the back of Geralt's tongue. His cock throbs inside his trousers.

"Is that what you're going to do, Father Geralt?" Jaskier asks, voice barely above a whisper. "Are you going to teach me a lesson?"

Geralt tightens his hold on Jaskier's chin. Forces his face up until his eyes meet Geralt's again. "You haven't left me any choice," Geralt tells him. "I'm going to have to punish you, Julian."

Jaskier's breath sticks in his throat again. Geralt waits, his own breath trapped and burning in his lungs. He waits for the whiff of fear. For the smell of arousal to turn sour. For the lust in Jaskier's eyes to grow cold. He waits for things that never come to pass.

Jaskier's cheeks are aflame, but he holds Geralt's gaze, unflinching. "Well," he says, voice tremulous but unafraid, "you must do what you think is right, Father."

Geralt's unnatural heart beats painfully in his chest. Even now, after everything, Jaskier gives him his trust as easily as breathing. Geralt struggles under the weight of it. A mantle he doesn't deserve, and never will. He is too corrupt. Too twisted up inside. A monster who wants everything that he shouldn't. 

He releases his grip on Jaskier's chin, lest the bard feel some telltale tremor there. "Stand up," he gruffs out, throat tight. "Take off your clothes."

Jaskier obeys instantly. Unhesitatingly. He rises to his feet and carefully toes off his boots. First one, then the other. Tugs at the loosened laces of his breeches. They fall to the floor with a soft slithering sound and pool around his ankles. Jaskier steps out of them with practiced ease as he grabs the hem of his shift and pulls it up and off in one smooth motion. Geralt has seen whores undress with less skill and efficiency.

He watches while Jaskier nimbly removes his stockings, an act no other man on the continent could make seem like a seduction. When finally he stands before Geralt as naked as the day he was born, Geralt takes a moment to rake his eyes over Jaskier's body. He so rarely allows himself to admire the bard. His long legs. Broad shoulders. Slender torso. All that smooth, pale skin. He wonders if Jaskier knows how beautiful he is. Geralt wishes he could tell him.

Instead, he lets his gaze linger over Jaskier's cock, flushed and straining up toward his navel. "No smallclothes?" he observes, flicking his eyes back up to meet Jaskier's. "You dirty little thing."

Jaskier's blush creeps down his neck and over his shoulders. Disappears beneath the heavy dusting of hair on his chest. Geralt wants to chase it with his mouth. Before Jaskier can formulate a response, he pats one leather-clad thigh lightly. Says, "Come here, you filthy boy. Put yourself over my lap."

Jaskier ducks his head, face burning, but he complies without delay or hesitation. Steps forward and lays himself across Geralt's thighs. It should be ridiculous. Jaskier is a grown man, not a child. Not the waifish boy he was when they first met all those years ago. His legs are too long. His body fills up Geralt's entire lap. His arms dangle awkwardly to the floor. But somehow, when his weight settles over Geralt's legs, heavy and warm, it feels right. It feels like he belongs there.

Geralt strokes one hand down the long, smooth plane of Jaskier's back. Lets his fingers trip over the knobs of his spine, slowly, one by one. Jaskier is sensitive here, he knows. By the time his fingers pause in the delta at the cleft of Jaskier's ass, he is squirming under Geralt's touch. Grinding down maddeningly against his aching cock.

"Be still," Geralt commands, softly but undeniably. He lays his other hand on the back of Jaskier's neck. Doesn't push. Doesn't squeeze. Only lets it rest there, a firm, grounding weight. A message. Jaskier subsides with a quiet sound. "Good boy."

Geralt slides his hand up the backs of Jaskier's thighs, one at a time. Over the sublime curve of his ass. He has never been a religious man, but this is an altar at which he has worshipped. Fallen to his knees and confessed with hands and lips and tongue all the things he cannot say. Every filthy thought. Every secret, hidden desire. And he would do it again, here and now, because nothing has ever made him feel so devout. But that's not why they're here.

He cups his hand over one perfect pale half-moon. Admires the way the exquisite shape fits flawlessly into the arc of his hand. It will be a shame to mark up all this smooth, supple skin, but Geralt would be lying if he said there isn't a part of him, deep down, that's looking forward to it. The same shameful part that took pleasure in seeing his marks on Jaskier after the succubus. After Keira's cabin.

Jaskier shivers under his touch. Geralt wonders if he's thinking about it too. About wearing Geralt's marks on his skin. About how he'll feel them for days after. Every time he sits. Every time he shifts just so and his clothes brush against his sore, abused flesh. And every time he'll be reminded of what's been done to him. What _Geralt_ has done to him.

"I don't want to hurt you," Geralt murmurs. He isn't sure who he's trying to reassure. Jaskier, or himself. "But I can't go easy on you, lark. This has to be real in order to break the curse. Do you understand?"

"I understand," Jaskier says, whisper soft but unfaltering. _I trust you_ , Geralt hears, and his heart twists. He has never been so unworthy.

"If you need me to stop. If." Geralt pauses. Swallows. "If I go too far. Just say..."

"Valdo Marx," Jaskier supplies.

Geralt's lip curls. The thought of Jaskier calling out another man's name while Geralt has his hands all over him is hateful. Even if it is the bard's most detested rival, a man upon whom he once wished a painful death, the idea twists sickly in Geralt's stomach. He supposes, though, that it is fitting. If anything is certain to break the spell and snap Geralt back to reality, it would be that.

"Fine," Geralt grunts, grudgingly. "You can cry out as much as you want. Make as much noise as you need to. But unless you say that name, exactly, I won't let up. Not until I'm finished."

Geralt doesn't know what about that makes Jaskier shudder against him. Makes his hips stutter forward in an aborted little thrust. He only knows that the more Jaskier comes unraveled at his hand, the more tenuous becomes his grasp on his own self-control.

"I'm going to start now," Geralt tells him, rubbing gentle circles over Jaskier's lovely bottom. Reacquainting himself with the feel of it. "I want you to count the strikes for me, Julian. And tell me what you've done to earn them."

" _Fuck_ , Geralt," Jaskier breathes. Barely an exhalation. If not for Geralt's heightened hearing, he might not have heard it at all.

His fingers tighten where they rest on Jaskier's ass, digging grooves into the tender flesh. "What was that?" he asks, a dangerous edge to his voice.

" _Ah_ ," Jaskier squeaks. His body tenses as he very clearly tries not to squirm. "Fuck. I mean, _yes_. Yes, sir."

Geralt's cock throbs inside his trousers. He has to fight the urge to rock up into the press of Jaskier's body. "Good boy," he purrs. "I knew they'd taught you some manners at that fancy school of yours."

He releases his grip on Jaskier's backside. Before Jaskier has a chance to relax, Geralt raises his hand and brings it down with a sharp _crack_ that reverberates in the narrow room. He isn't sure exactly what reaction he was expecting, but it wasn't the long, shuddering intake of breath. The low sound that seems to work its way up from somewhere deep.

" _Oh_ ," Jaskier says, half groan, half gasp. He sounds like he did the first time Geralt put his cock in him. " _Geralt_."

Geralt is painfully aware of every bead of sweat on his body. He strokes his fingers, feather light, over the livid red handprint on Jaskier's ass. Waits for the space of one tortured heartbeat. Two.

"What are you supposed to be doing, Julian?" he asks, glad that his voice more or less always sounds so gritty and rough.

Jaskier sucks in a shaky breath. "One," he counts. He sounds wrecked, and Geralt has just gotten started. "For...for not listening at the temple."

Geralt hums approvingly. He raises his hand again and lands another slap. Leaves a matching red handprint on Jaskier's other cheek. Jaskier jolts. Unprepared, perhaps, for another blow so quickly. But Geralt doesn't have to remind him again.

"T-two," Jaskier calls out, dutifully. "For stealing the honeycake."

Geralt aims his next blow lower, at the tender juncture where Jaskier's thigh meets his ass. Jaskier jolts again. Groans, low and weak. His hand finds Geralt's ankle. Geralt feels the press of his fingers, surprisingly strong, through the thick leather of his boots.

" _Gods._ Three," Jaskier says. His breath is coming faster now. "For...for…fuck, I don't know."

"For being an insolent little brat and mouthing off to me afterward," Geralt helps him along. It doesn't come without a cost. He places another hard slap on the opposite side. "And that's for insisting on going down to the tavern tonight when you should have stayed here with me. Where you _belong_ , Julian."

"Yes. _Yes_ , I—" But whatever Jaskier is about to say gets lost amid gasps and bitten off cries as Geralt lands four more strikes in quick succession.

"Those are for the people you let touch you," Geralt growls. He rubs his hand briskly over Jaskier's quickly reddening ass. Scrapes the corner of his thumbnail over the bright edge of a fingerprint. Jaskier squeaks gratifyingly. 

"Geralt. Geralt, _please_ —"

" _Please_ what, Julian?" he demands. "Gonna tell me how it's not your fault, because of the curse? Want me to believe it would've happened if you hadn't been slutting around with your clothes half undone?"

Jaskier makes a small sound that Geralt doesn't know how to parse. "No," he murmurs. "No, you're right, I—"

Geralt hits him again. For the audacity. He _knows_ he's right. Jaskier is a whore for attention. That much has been patently obvious since the moment Geralt first saw him, wide-eyed and babyfaced, at that tavern in Posada. He knows from long personal experience exactly what kind of peacocking the bard must have been doing, half-dressed and courting disaster as usual.

Thinking about it makes Geralt's blood run hot. Hotter. Fuck, he's _burning_. Jaskier is a molten weight over his lap, skin flushed and covered in a fine sheen of sweat that glistens enticingly in the low lamplight. Geralt wants nothing more than to put his hands all over that sweat-slick skin. Make Jaskier forget what it feels like to be touched by anyone else.

He strokes his hand down over the curve of Jaskier's ass. Lets his middle finger dip promisingly into the cleft. Jaskier utters a high, helpless noise that makes Geralt's cock ache, and the only thing that keeps Geralt from going further, from finding that sweet spot he so desperately wants to sink himself into, is the way Jaskier rocks dangerously against him.

"Be still," Geralt growls. Lays a sharp blow across the seat of Jaskier's ass. "You don't listen very well, do you, boy?"

Jaskier makes a frustrated little noise as he struggles to still himself. Gasps out, "Sorry. I'm sorry, sir. I'm trying, I swear."

Geralt hums doubtfully. "Are you," he says. "You can't even remember to count, Julian. Or didn't you ever learn what comes after three? Too busy getting on your knees for every pretty boy or girl who crossed your path?"

He doesn't need to see Jaskier's face to know he's blushing. Geralt can feel the heat of it under the hand resting on the back of Jaskier's neck. Can see the pink tinging the tips of his ears.

"I—I'm sorry," Jaskier says again. Geralt can imagine the way he catches his lip between his teeth. How red and wet and bitten it must look. "Let me try again, sir, please. I'll do better. I'll be good, I promise."

Geralt hums again, thoughtfully. "Or maybe we can find a better use for that talented tongue," he says. "Something I know you're much better at."

"Yes. _Gods_ yes," Jaskier breathes. Geralt feels his body go tense and quivering with the effort not to squirm eagerly.

"Listen to you. Such a slut for it," Geralt murmurs, half fond, half admonishing. Jaskier makes a little hurt puppy noise that should not go straight to Geralt's dick. He doesn't deny it, though. How could he. They both know the truth. "Is that why you went back downstairs after I left? Because you're such a little slut?"

Jaskier's breath stutters in his throat. "You said you weren't upset about that," he replies, just this side of petulant. Geralt squeezes a handful of his sore red backside warningly.

"I said I wasn't upset about the girl," Geralt points out. "But you deliberately disobeyed me, didn't you, Julian? I told you to stay here while I was gone. And the second my back was turned, you were right back down to the tavern trying to get your dick wet. Weren't you, you little slut?"

"Yes, sir," Jaskier says, his voice caught somewhere between a moan and a whine.

"Anything could have happened to you. Do you know that? Anything." Geralt traces the outline of his own handprint over the bard's ass as he talks. Slides his other hand from the back of Jaskier's neck to his throat and up to cup the curve of his chin. "Someone could have come in and taken advantage. Touched you. _Forced_ you. And you would have been helpless, Julian. It drives me mad to think of it."

Something about that makes Jaskier's heart pause worryingly in its sharp staccato rhythm. "I—I'm sorry," he says. "I just—I didn't think—"

"No," Geralt agrees. "You rarely do. And now, here we are."

Jaskier, for once, says nothing.

There is a long moment of silence while Geralt sketches the shape of Jaskier's mouth with his thumb, considering. "How many do you think I should give you for that?" he asks, finally. "For disobeying me. For putting yourself in danger. How many do you think you deserve for being such an incorrigible little slut?"

Jaskier, ever the creature of habit, tries to bite his lip, but only succeeds in scraping his teeth over the tip of Geralt's thumb. Geralt growls, low in his throat. Rocks his hips up against Jaskier before he can master himself. Jaskier whines, that lost puppy noise again. Geralt is losing his fucking mind. 

"Fuck," he bites out. " _Fuck_ , Jaskier."

"Geralt," Jaskier says back, slurred against Geralt's fingers. "Geralt, _please_ —"

Geralt presses two fingers into Jaskier's open mouth to silence him. If he starts begging now, Geralt doesn't think he has the strength to resist. "Shh," he soothes. "Just a little more, okay? You can take it, can't you?"

Jaskier's answer is to lower his head down to take Geralt's fingers deeper, almost to the back of his throat, and close his lips around them at the first knuckle. He does something filthy with his tongue that makes Geralt's eyes roll back in his head. It's almost a shame to have to punish him, with a mouth like that.

Geralt does it anyway. Delivers a sharp slap to Jaskier's backside that makes the bard yelp, mouth going slack and gasping around Geralt's fingers. Geralt slides them out, slowly. Savors the soft rasp of Jaskier's tongue. The tight drag of his lips. Then he shoves them back in, all the way, so deep Jaskier is forced to swallow around them, or choke.

They both groan.

"Don't stop," Geralt half growls. "Get these nice and wet for me."

Jaskier doesn't need to be told twice. He barely needs to be told once. The words haven't fully left Geralt's lips before Jaskier is sucking eagerly at his fingers like he was fucking born for it, mouth hot and wet and perfect. Unrelenting, even when Geralt strikes him again. And again. And again. 

He settles into a steady rhythm of quick, sharp blows tempered by soothing caresses. Long, loving strokes of his hand over skin so red and hot that Geralt swears he can feel the pulse thrumming just beneath the surface. It isn't long before Jaskier's body has gone tense and trembling over his lap with the effort of holding himself still.

"Good boy," Geralt praises. It only seems to make Jaskier's struggle harder. He shudders and mewls around Geralt's fingers as Geralt murmurs, "Being so good for me, lark. Taking it so well," while he spanks him soundly.

He doesn't stop until the red starts to edge into bruise purple. Until Jaskier is a quivering mess, sobbing openly around the fingers in his mouth. Geralt tastes salt in the air. He smooths his hand, feather light, over Jaskier's abused flesh. Gentles him.

When he draws his fingers out of Jaskier's mouth, the bard is already begging, " _Pleasepleaseplease_." Geralt doesn't know whether he's begging for more, or begging for mercy, but either way, Geralt is inclined to give it to him. To give him whatever he wants. Anything. Everything.

"What," Geralt rasps out. Swallows down the tightness in his throat. "What do you want, lark? Tell me."

"Touch me," Jaskier pleads, gasping. He makes a pitiful noise as Geralt continues to stroke his tender backside. And another, louder, when he slides his thumb into the space where Jaskier is untouched and spreads him wide. " _Please_ , Geralt. Fuck. I—I need it. Need _you_. Please."

Geralt feels hot all over. He rumbles a sound, low down, hungry, as he rubs spit-slick fingers over Jaskier's sweet pink hole. "Here?" he asks. Growls. 

"Yes. _Yes_. Anything. Anything, _please_ , just—"

Jaskier breaks off with a sob when Geralt presses a finger into him. The tight clench of his body is overwhelming. Geralt feels dizzy with it. With the sudden surge of primal satisfaction. The only way Jaskier is this tight is if he hasn't given himself to anyone since Geralt got him spread out over Keira's bed and took him apart over and over again. The knowledge is almost more than Geralt can bear.

" _Jaskier_ ," he breathes. He wonders if Jaskier can hear everything he doesn't say, or if he's too far gone. He shakes under Geralt's touch as Geralt pushes past the initial resistance. Works into him until he's buried knuckle-deep, thumb rubbing a lazy half-circle over his rim.

"Oh," Jaskier says, low. A punched-out, half-drunk sound. Geralt knows that tone. Knows what it means when Jaskier's voice goes well deep and almost stunned. "Oh, _Geralt_."

Geralt swallows. His throat clicks dryly. "Are you—just from this, you could—" he tries, but the sound that comes out of him is more animal than anything intelligible. 

It doesn't matter. The answer is clear. Geralt withdraws his finger slowly. Rubs it down over the smooth stretch of skin to the swell of Jaskier balls and back again before pressing back in. The angle is bad, and it's too dry by half, but Jaskier doesn't seem to mind. His body pulls taut like a bowstring and his fingers tighten around Geralt's ankle so hard his bones creak.

" _Fuck_. Can I—oh fuck— _please_ , Geralt, can I—" he begs. He sounds half-mad with desperation.

Geralt feels that sweep of dizziness again. An almost feverish delirium, like drinking too much white gull too quickly. He never would have dreamed of Jaskier begging him to come. Asking him for _permission_. As if it's a thing Geralt could allow or deny, and Jaskier would just _obey_. The idea of it nearly undoes him.

"Wait," he forces out. Low. Guttural.

Jaskier sobs. " _Please_. I've been so good. Haven't I? Haven't I been good?"

"Perfect," Geralt rumbles, throat tight. "You deserve more than this."

_More than me_ , he doesn't say. Should say. But he won't. Geralt of Rivia is many things besides a mutant and a killer. He is selfish, impulsive, reckless. Weak. Weak for this fool bard, who is so beautiful and eager and wanting. And Geralt is going to fuck him because he's too far gone to deny himself.

He carefully eases his finger from the tight clench of Jaskier's body. Jaskier makes that kicked puppy noise again, but then Geralt is helping him to his feet. Steadying him with hands on his hips when he teeters precariously. His face is red and tear-stained, and he regards Geralt with a look that is stunned and awestruck and somehow deeply vulnerable. 

"Get on the bed, lark," Geralt says, as gently as he knows how.

Jaskier doesn't hesitate. He shuffles to the bed with slow, faltering steps, though with no less dignity for all that. Geralt watches him, feeling...something. He pushes it down deep and gets to his feet. His legs are as unsteady as the time he and Lambert competed to see who could drink the most Mahakaman spirit without dying, but he manages to cross to the corner where his bags are stashed and retrieve the crystal phial Keira gave him as a parting gift.

When Geralt turns back toward the bed, he has to stifle the sound that tries to claw its way out of his throat. Jaskier is on the bed, on his knees. Hands clutching the rough-hewn headboard. Legs spread wide. Geralt can see everything. _Everything_. He grips himself tightly through his trousers for a moment, just to take the edge off the tight curl of heat that spikes low in his belly.

"Is—is this—okay?" Jaskier asks haltingly when Geralt knees up onto the bed behind him.

"Perfect," Geralt breathes. He runs one hand up the length of Jaskier's body, from knee to shoulder, and back again. Cups the cherry red curve of his ass. Thumbs at his hole. "You're perfect."

Jaskier makes a helpless sound. Leans back into Geralt's touch, begging, "Please."

Geralt hastily tugs the stopper from the phial with his teeth and gets oil in his mouth for his trouble. It has a surprisingly sweet flavor, with subtle floral undertones, like honey and rosewater. He tucks that information away in the back of his mind, for a latter day, perhaps. For now, he pours oil over his fingers and into the cleft of Jaskier's ass. Rubs it into him until they're both slippery with it and Jaskier's breath is coming in short, sharp gasps.

"Geralt—fuck, oh fuck— _Geralt_ ," he pants. Grips himself hard around the base of his cock to keep from coming while Geralt works him open. "Please just—"

"Don't wanna hurt you, lark," Geralt insists, but he's already dropping the stoppered phial carelessly onto the rumpled sheets so that he can tear open the laces of his trousers.

"I can take it. I can— _oh_ —I can take it," Jaskier chants deliriously. The way he's fucking himself back on three of Geralt's fingers, Geralt is inclined to believe him. 

He shoves his trousers and smallclothes down enough to free his aching cock. It throbs in time with the labored beating of his heart, an insistent reminder that he's been too hard for too long without relief. He barely manages to maintain his composure as he slicks himself with the rest of the oil on his hand, warm from Jaskier's body. The taste of blood blooms in his mouth as he bites down on his lip. He isn't going to last. The way Jaskier keens and shakes when Geralt starts to press into him, he doesn't think it matters.

"Breathe," he tells him, even as his own breath stutters to a stop at the tight clench of Jaskier's body around the head of his cock. The blast furnace heat of him. Geralt presses his face between Jaskier's shoulder blades and thinks about drowner guts. The very specific stench of a rotfiend. Anything. Anything else. Holds himself very, very still.

Jaskier whines, "Geralt, you can't—you have to—fuck, _move_ , please," and bucks back against him. Geralt, helpless, wraps his arms around Jaskier's waist and pulls him into his lap as he sits back on his heels. Lets gravity and the oil work. Jaskier sinks down on Geralt's cock in one torturously long, slick, inexorable slide that makes Geralt's vision go gray and his ears ring.

" _Fuck_ ," he gasps against Jaskier's sweat-damp skin.

Jaskier says something. Geralt doesn't know what. The whole world has narrowed down to nothing but the feel of Jaskier tight-hot around every inch of his dick. The way he's buried so deep he can feel Jaskier's heartbeat from the inside. He gropes blindly for Jaskier's hand. Wrenches it away from where Jaskier has a stranglehold on his own cock.

"Now," he grits out. "Now you can."

He bounces Jaskier on his cock. A quick, sharp motion that makes Jaskier throw his head back and moan shudderingly. "Yes, _yes_ ," he pants, even though it must hurt when his sore ass slaps against Geralt's thighs. "Like that. Just like that."

Geralt obliges. Does it again. And again. And then Jaskier's spine is curving sharply. Legs shaking over top of Geralt's. Fingers digging sweet-sharp bruises into Geralt's arm around his waist as he comes so hard the only sound he can make is a choked-out, " _Ah, ah, ah_."

Geralt wants to keep fucking him through it. Wants to fuck him all night and into the morning and never stop. But the feeling of Jaskier's body squeezing down all around him so tight he can't fucking see straight is more than Geralt can take. So he does the only thing he can do. He bites down on Jaskier's shoulder and follows right behind him. Spills so deep inside of him that Geralt thinks Jaskier will never be able to get him out this time. The thought is enough to make his brain fizzle out entirely.

He doesn't know how much time passes. When he comes back to himself, slowly, incrementally, Jaskier has gone limp in his arms. Geralt's muscles burn with the strain of holding him upright. He tips the bard carefully onto the bed. Eases out of him as gently as he can, and doesn't dare look at the mess he's made of him. Geralt is still hard. He could easily go another round, or two, or three, but the muffled sounds Jaskier makes into the pillow make Geralt think he shouldn't test his limits.

He rubs the heel of his palm over the small of Jaskier's back. Asks, "Okay?"

Jaskier makes a vaguely affirmative noise.

"Stay here," Geralt says, as if Jaskier is in any condition to do otherwise.

He goes to the basin by the window. The water is an unfortunate temperature, somewhere between tepid and piss-warm. He rinses himself off with it anyway. Strips off his sweaty, disheveled clothes and washes away the worst of the stickiness. In the morning, perhaps, they'll have a bath, but for now, this will have to do. Geralt soaks a rag in clean water from the jug and takes it back to the bed.

Jaskier is laid out on his stomach. Arms and legs stretched to each of the four corners of the bed. Face pressed into the pillow. Geralt would give anything to sink back into him. To fuck him long and slow and sweet just like that. Instead, he sits next to him and wipes the cloth in slow, tender strokes over Jaskier's abused flesh. Jaskier hisses and grumbles into the pillow, but he allows it. And afterward, he allows Geralt to rub liniment over his sore backside too. He only whinges about it a little, until the ache starts to subside.

When Geralt is done, he wipes his hands on the rag. Rolls Jaskier over gently. His face is pink and his eyes are wet, but he seems in no particular distress. He lays still and lets Geralt rub the cloth over all the places where he's made a mess of himself. Watches him with an expression Geralt doesn't understand. No one has ever looked at him that way before.

"Thank you," Jaskier says, so quiet and so sincere that it makes something inside of Geralt ache.

It doesn't make any sense. Geralt has done nothing that Jaskier should be grateful for. And yet, Jaskier reaches out to him. Curls his fingers around Geralt's wrist with such tenderness it makes Geralt feel like he could break apart.

"You always take such good care of me," Jaskier murmurs. His eyes are sleepy-soft and a little dazed. The way they gleam in the candlelight, a person could almost believe he's magic. "I don't deserve you."

He's right. He doesn't deserve Geralt. He deserves better. Deserves the world, and everything good that it has to offer. Everything Geralt can never give him.

Geralt frowns. "Don't thank me yet," he grumbles. "We don't even know if it worked."

"Hmm," Jaskier hums in such a perfect imitation of Geralt that he would laugh, if not for the way Jaskier keeps looking at him. Like he's anything other than a monster. Like he's worth something.

Geralt swallows down the lump in his throat as Jaskier slides his fingers up the length of his arm. Caresses the curve of his shoulder. The swell of his chest. He wraps his fingers around Geralt's medallion, which remains motionless in his grasp.

"Guess you're cured," Geralt murmurs.

"Praise be to you, my white wolf," Jaskier says, just as softly. "Now come to bed. Let me show you my gratitude."

It's ridiculous, the idea of it. That Geralt could ask that of him, now, after everything. The idea that Jaskier might want to give it to him. But he tugs insistently at Geralt's medallion, and Geralt goes, because what else can he do? He never could say no to the bard.

He snaps his fingers at the candle. Snuffs it out with a thought as he lays down beside Jaskier. Finds his mouth in the dark and lets himself believe, just for tonight, that this is something he can have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick word about the dubcon tag: I decided to include it just to be on the safe side, since we are dealing with a curse that essentially takes away a person's autonomy. However, I just want to reassure everyone that the boys are both 100% on board with everything. In fact, if you look closely, I tried to hint at the idea that Jaskier is already free of the curse before Geralt ever really touches him. In my headcanon, the spell was broken the second Geralt pushed him away and stormed off into the night like a big broody dumb ass, because being rejected by Geralt is a greater punishment than anything else he could have done to him.
> 
> Anyway. I hope you guys enjoyed! Writing Geralt's POV was actually really challenging for me, so I'm interested to see if it was successful. Feedback is love! <3


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